Home for Christmas
by menolly-au
Summary: Blythe gets an unexpected gift for Christmas. House/Wilson, post-finale.
1. Chapter 1

Wilson parked the car down the street from the house. Both man stayed seated, staring down the road.

"We could go; there are still eighteen states we haven't visited." House said, but with a note of defeat in his voice, he knew this fight was already lost.

"You agreed to do this," Wilson pointed out. "And it's twenty states."

"Nobody counts Hawaii and Alaska." House placed his ace card. "She's an old lady. The shock could kill her. You don't want me to be responsible for my mother's death do you? On Christmas Eve? I'll be in therapy for the rest of my life."

"Which is why I'm going in first - to prepare her."

"She thinks you're dead too."

"She hasn't been to _my_ funeral. And I'm not her son. She'll survive."

"What are you going to say? That I didn't give a fuck that I was making her grieve for her son? That all that mattered to me was being with my bestie? And, oh by the way Mom, you know how you always wanted me to settle down with a nice girl, well, I did - but he's a nice boy? Grandchildren are out, sorry."

"I'll find a better way to say it than that. And I'm pretty sure Blythe ruled out grandchildren a long time ago."

"But..."

Wilson opened the car door and got out. He leaned back in the open window. "It's going to be okay, House. The only thing she's going to care about is that you're still alive, and that you're happy. Trust me, I know Moms." He started to walk off and then he reached back in the car and quickly snatched the keys out of the ignition. "Just in case you get any ideas about driving off."

"Bastard!" House called after him, and Wilson flipped him the bird behind his back. House scowled and put his ear buds in, slouching down in his seat to let his music take him away. A few seconds later he snatched the buds out of his ears in disgust, a particularly cheery version of 'Jingle Bells' reverberating in his head. Wilson had filled his IPod with Christmas songs.

* * *

Despite his reassuring words Wilson was nervous as he walked up the immaculate path towards the house. He knew that, despite his show of indifference, House's Mom was important to him, in an abstract type of way. She represented something in his life, something important - maybe even that unconditional love he claimed didn't exist.

He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, torn between hoping that Blythe had already gone to her sister's for Christmas and hoping that she would be there so they could get this over with.

Just as he was beginning to turn away the door opened.

"James?" Blythe put one hand up to her chest and Wilson had a sudden vision of House's gloomy prophecy coming true and Blythe expiring on the doorstep. "James! What a surprise."

Aren't you dead? Wilson heard the unspoken thought. Eighteen months had passed since his 'five months to live' death sentence - a sentence Wilson knew Blythe had heard about at the funeral.

"I got better," he said. There was a lot more to it of course. His mind flashed over the last eighteen months, touching only lightly on those moments he'd rather forget. She didn't need the details.

Suddenly he was embraced, her arms wrapped around him. Wilson was touched by her concern. He wondered if he was standing in for the son she thought she'd never hug again.

"Oh James, Greg... "her voice faltered, "Greg would have been so pleased." She pulled back, looking at him at arm's length. "You meant a great deal to him, you know that, don't you?"

Yes, he did. He thought that he always had, really.

They were still standing on the doorstep and he glanced down the street, the car could just be seen beyond a bend in the road. Blythe followed his glance.

"Is there someone with you, James?" She glanced down at his hand, spotting the gold ring on his finger. Her face lit up and she was about to say something when he shook his head.

"There is, but I need to tell you about them first. It's going to be a bit of a shock." He took a deep breath, he hadn't meant to do this here, on the doorstep but he didn't want to keep the truth from her any longer.

"House... Greg survived the fire, Blythe. He isn't dead."

Her eyes went wide and she stared at him, speechless. Then her gaze flicked back to the car and she went past him at a speed he wouldn't have thought possible.

"Greg!"

Wilson quickly caught up to Blythe and as they approached the car the door opened and House stood up, standing still on the sidewalk, his stance apprehensive. His Mom stopped and stared at him for a second and then came forward, embracing him, her arms coming around and hugging her son.

House looked at Wilson over Blythe's shoulder, and smiled at him, his relief showing. He returned his Mom's embrace, holding her tightly.

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

End


	2. Chapter 3

**This was supposed to be a one-shot but third_owl and nightdog_barks on livejournal wrote a lovely second part which can be found at third-owl dot livejournal dot com slash 3052 dot html. This is turn inspired me to add this last part :) **

There's something about waking up in his mother's house on Christmas morning that makes him feel like he's eight years old again and lying awake waiting for his father's imposed deadline to come before he can jump out of bed and run down the stairs to see the presents waiting under the tree.

Those minutes, or hours, of anticipation were always the best part about Christmas. The gaily wrapped presents were usually a let-down but in those early morning hours they could have been anything. He had hope.

The feeling of being a child again is swiftly dispersed when he rolls his head to one side and sees Wilson. He's snoring heavily, and drooling on the pillow. He'll be asleep for a while yet; he's never been able to hold his drink. House thinks about prodding him into life for a quickie but there's little point; Amber had been right about Wilson's inability to perform after alcohol consumption.

He leaves the bed that's warm with Wilson's presence for a chilly trip to the bathroom and then wanders downstairs to the kitchen. His Mom is already there, a mug of coffee clasped in her hands; she's showing no after effects of her late night drinking session. Her face lights up as she sees him and she watches him as he makes his way to the coffee pot. He mumbles a Christmas greeting that seems to satisfy her and slumps down into a chair at the table, his hands wrapped around the mug.

"Thomas called," she gestures to the phone lying discarded on the table, "he's snowed in. All the flights have been cancelled for today."

House feels an instant wave of relief; Thomas had been due to fly back today from visiting a sick friend. It had been rough enough yesterday, dealing with his Mom alternating between joy, concern and anger and he doesn't need Thomas kicking his ass about it.

He looks around the kitchen; Wilson had spent part of yesterday pottering around in here - staying out of the line of fire for the most part, and who could blame him? There are signs of a Christmas dinner in the making and he gets up and starts to pull stuff together. He becomes aware of his Mom's silence and looks up to find her staring at him. He continues his efforts - he's not going to try explaining the desperate search for diversion post-Mayfield which led to him being competent in the kitchen after a lifetime of frozen meals.

After a while she joins him, quietly working alongside, sometimes brushing his hand as they work. She's been doing that a lot - as if she can hardly believe he's still here. He knows the impulse - he's felt it with Wilson, although with Wilson it's less about a gentle guiding touch and more about covering every inch of his body with his own until Wilson starts to make noises about being smothered.

There's the sound of shuffling footsteps and Wilson appears in the doorway. He has that crumpled look that House enjoys, and one hand rubs at the back of his neck as he stands there awkwardly. He's feigning an embarrassment House knows he doesn't feel and he's rewarded by Blythe coming forward and hugging him warmly. House rolls his eyes as they exchange the usual Christmas pleasantries.

"Get your lazy ass over here and peel some potatoes - this dinner isn't going to cook itself."

"And a merry Christmas to you too, House." Wilson says mildly, ignoring his suggestion and sitting down with a cup of coffee.

"Thomas can't get back," Blythe explains to Wilson - as if he cares. House sees the relief on Wilson's face even if Blythe doesn't. "It's lovely to have both of you here, but won't your wife mind, James?" Her glance flicks towards Wilson's ring again. House has always kept her up to date on Wilson's marital failures.

"I'm not married," Wilson says and then shuts up - the weasel - tossing the ball firmly into House's lap.

"I got him the ring," House says. It had been a joke at first. When Wilson had started his treatment course House had insisted that he wear the ring to scare off the flock of nurses who would otherwise gather around the poor wounded teddy bear to nurse him back to health. He didn't want another Wilson-wife riding on the back of one of the motorcycles - that would kill their man-cred for sure.

When it became apparent that there would be no more Wilson-wives, ever, Wilson had still kept the ring firmly on his finger. House has caught him staring at it with a dopey look on his face more than once.

Blythe is looking at him doubtfully, as if she's not sure whether House is joking or not. She glances at his empty ring finger and then back at Wilson.

House waits for Wilson to say something to fill the heavy silence. There's a tray of peeled carrots sitting ready on the kitchen bench. Maybe if he throws it up in the air that will be sufficient diversion. He and Wilson can run out the front door and be in the next state by evening. They won't even need to break a window this time.

"_James_ and I are together," he hears himself saying instead. "He's my gay boyfriend. He's just too cheap to buy me a ring."

She still looks doubtful - as if she can't believe a word he says, and where did she ever get that idea? She arranges her face in a neutral expression and turns to the dresser to start getting out the fancy linen.

House pulls a face at Wilson who is giving him a stern look and making strange gestures with his hands. House just shrugs at him, hey, he tried. What is he supposed to do - throw Wilson onto the kitchen table and start ravishing him?

He keeps preparing the food, glad to have something to do rather than make conversation with his Mom. After a while Wilson and Blythe disappear into the next room - ostensibly to lay the table for lunch. There's a low murmur of voices and he figures they are having a Serious Conversation. Then he hears laughter and the voices become louder. Either Blythe has reconciled to the idea that her son and his long suffering best friend are now lovers, or Wilson has been plying her with booze again. Either way is fine with House.

They eat at the large table in the dining area. The table is as meticulously dressed as if Blythe had been expecting her dead son, and his _partner_, to turn up for Christmas dinner all along. Wilson has somehow put those damned Christmas songs on his Mom's stereo and they roll out across the meal, breaking up any moments of silence with their forcible Christmas cheer. House starts planning his revenge while Wilson is carving the turkey.

It isn't the most awkward meal House has ever had but it ranks right up there. His Mom is still looking at him as if she expects him to disappear in a puff of smoke at any time, and alternating that with glances between Wilson and himself. House swears he can almost hear her thinking 'how cute', or maybe it's 'when did my son turn gay', or 'what is he going to do next to disappoint his mother'; he's not sure.

There's a picture on the wall directly opposite where he's sitting. It's a formal portrait of John in his uniform, Blythe the dutiful military wife, and his twelve year old self, stuck between them, a fixed smile on his face. John has a heavy hand on his shoulder. There isn't a word of truth in the picture.

Wilson follows his glance and then looks around the table. He clears his throat and raises his glass.

"To family," he toasts.

Blythe raises her glass and, after a chiding look from his Mom, House joins in. He meets Wilson's gaze and Wilson silently toasts him.

Blythe looks from him to Wilson and smiles behind the thin veil of tears that shines in her eyes. "To family," she echoes. She looks straight at Wilson and raises her glass in salute. "Thank you, James."

Once Blythe has gone to bed, and Wilson's liquor haul has been depleted by a respectable amount, they settle on the couch in front of the Christmas tree. There had been no presents; House had figured that his having risen from the dead was present enough for Blythe, and he had everything he could have wanted from his Mom.

Wilson pours them both another glass and then he goes over to the tree and retrieves some sort of package from where it was hidden in the high branches. He returns to his place on the couch next to House and puts the small package in front of him on the coffee table.

It's small and square and House has no doubts that a gold ring, twin to Wilson's own, lies inside.

"To the future," Wilson says.

The only thing left for House to do is to kiss him. So he does. When they break apart he rests his head briefly against Wilson's and murmurs in his ear.

"Merry Christmas, Wilson."

~~End


End file.
